Possessive
by totaltheTERRIER
Summary: Winry makes some serious last-minute adjustments to a particular arm.


The sun was rising dreadfully quick that morning, Winry Rockbell noted peevishly as she hurried to the workbench where her (incomplete) masterpiece gleamed in the aggravating stirrings of light.

She couldn't help but take a moment to properly appreciate the sight—honestly; a girl deserved one last time to admire (caress) her work before it was grafted onto an actual human body (who might JUDGE her HEALTHY affections and refer to her as his automail MANIAC until she could beat the notion out of him—speak softly and carry a heavy wrench, girl, and watch the men cower).

And really, she had outdone herself on this beauty. First-rate steel encompassed a complex network of fine wires, painstakingly woven into each silently rotating joint to simulate—and exceed—the natural limb's design. (Not to mention the new hinge's truly exceptional range of motion; her client may finally be able to lick his elbow without nearly dislocating his shoulder per the great and terrible dare of the wettest summer month on record.)

Granny had pronounced the arm finished the night before, and sent Winry to bed in preparation for the next day's grueling surgery. (She hadn't wanted to leave, not without such a significant piece missing, but the lit end of Granny's pipe was being gesticulated uncomfortably close to those blueprints, and she didn't want the smoke to mar the pristine surface of her first solo work.)

So now she was here, cursing the day for daring to peek its too-freakin-bright head up because she had work to do before this arm went anywhere.

Now, all Rockbell creations since the invention of the screwdriver had borne the stark _R_ insignia engraved on an inconspicuous surface—not obvious to the average observer but plain as day to any mechanic worth their wrench. Winry had thought the idea of branding a customer rather crude, but Granny had explained to her that the automail business was a competitive one, and the mark would serve to advertise the Rockbell name while discouraging imitations.

This particular arm had already received its token, located on the edge of the last of the overlapping shoulder plates. And while those reasons Granny had delivered were all very well and good and necessary, Winry knew the unspoken truth of the label. After all, she hadn't snuck down to the workshop for a trademark that would expand their customer base or even prevent counterfeiting. This compulsion to label her work wasn't entirely something reasonable; it was an insistent little voice that murmured _mine. _

Swiftly now she readied her equipment for the arm's final adjustment and proceeded to detach the smooth central plate of the palm from its pristine setting. The (un)lucky imminent recipient continued snoring upstairs, loud enough to rival the furious spitting of her laser as she lowered it to dull underside of the metal, scoring out a single, crookedly defiant _**w**_.

When she was finished, cool palm replaced and all incriminating tools returned to their disorderly arrangement, Winry rested on her workbench and listened to Ed's oblivious snores and Alphonse's patient silence as the day broke over Risembool's rolling hills. She knew their plans, knew that one morning soon she would rise to discover a pair of empty beds and footprints dark with ash disappearing over those hills. The boys she loved leaving her.

Alphonse had his brother inside him, a seal of blood and desperation and enough love to fill every inch of that steel shell. She did not know how to perform such a sacrifice; her science guided her to imitate nature, never to challenge it. But Winry believed through her creations, she could bring back to Ed, briefly, what he had lost; so that he could battle armies and demons and gods and all heaven and below to absolve himself.

She could give him the power to fulfill that journey with her love clasped in the palm of his hand. She would be there to lift each weighted suitcase, each daring spear, each grudging salute or testing handshake. She would lend her strength to each intricate circle, each devastating fist.

That _**w **_was a reminder; a promise; a threat to any man (or woman) who tried to take advantage of a boy who would give anything to be whole again. Ed belonged to Winry, and God help those who had never been warned that mechanics are possessive as hell.


End file.
